Haunted
by Irene Moriarty xx
Summary: It's a dry and dreary day at Baker Street, accompanied by a full-on drought. Hot and dehydrated, Sherlock decides to look around for ways to quench his thirst. But soon things take an unexpected turn, as flashbacks from his mysterious past catch up with him. Short fic, two chapters and just over a thousand words. Rated T for some—quite a lot of blood.
1. Chapter 1

John sighed as he tipped the empty water cooler. London had reached record temperatures that summer and there was an ongoing drought. Mrs. Hudson had some more water gallons in the basement but she was out shopping, so Sherlock and John had been lying on the rug, spread eagle on the warm floor, shades drawn.

Much to his annoyance, Sherlock had had to don a pair of gym shorts and a _London!_ Touristy T-shirt that had once been Mycroft's. Earlier that morning he had been trying to compose but the heat made it hard for anyone to think, so after an hour Sherlock gave up, laid down on the floor and just stared up at the stationery ceiling fan instead.

Even though it wasn't a great day, Sherlock was secretly happy. He'd succeeded in making up with John after Mary's death, and he'd also caught and detained a serial killer, Culverton Smith, while he was at it. Just another normal day as the world's only consulting detective.

Sherlock had been toying with an idea all afternoon but wasn't sure if John would agree to it. While the plumbing and power was still shut off there was still some water in the toilet, and if Sherlock could just find his water purifier maybe he could clean it a bit to drink or at least cool them off. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Bathroom." Sherlock mumbled, getting up to his feet. It was the first time he'd moved in several hours.

He got up and slowly made his way to the bathroom. It was several degrees cooler, something he was grateful for, and the cold floor made it all a bit more tolerable. Seeing the empty sink seemed to make Sherlock's mouth even drier.

Sherlock felt sweat beading in his face but the more he tried to wipe it away the wetter it seemed to become. He tried again and this time when he looked down his hand was red with blood.

He was momentarily confused. Nothing seemed to be wrong with his face and yet when he looked in the mirror there was a small trickle of scarlet coming from his nose.

"Nosebleed." Sherlock muttered to himself. After all, it was very dry and arid out. He began rummaging through the cupboard, searching for what he needed in the mess of all his science stuff. The nosebleed continued on but he just kept wiping it away. _Something isn't quite right_ , he thought, but he was too distracted and dehydrated to think straight.

Suddenly a hissing voice spoke from behind him. Sherlock's head snapped up, but the voice was already gone and he couldn't tell what it had said. He hadn't imagined it...had he?

 _Yellowbeard_

There it was again. Sherlock turned around but no one was there. The voice sounded familiar to him, like a friend from the past, but he couldn't quite place it. What, or who, was yellowbeard?

"John?" Sherlock called. "Is that you?"

Back in the living room, John had fallen asleep with a newspaper across his face. There was no one who could hear him.

"John?" Sherlock called again, a little more urgently. He started to leave the bathroom but stopped short when he saw a red, fluffy dog sitting on the sink, panting.

 _This isn't real._ Sherlock shook his head. _It can't be._ But the dog continued to sit there as the voice chanted the mysterious word again and again. The blood seemed to be coming faster, pooling on the floor.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, this time sprinting for the door, his feet slipping and splashing through the river of red. It rose up higher and higher and soon it was up to Sherlock's chin. He struggled to stay afloat. The dog was still there.

 _Come find me!_ A young girl giggled from somewhere. _Redbeard is going to drown, brother mine!_

Then his foot slipped and the next thing he knew he was falling...falling...

ooOoo

"Sherlock, are you in there?" John rattled the door but it was locked. "Sherlock?"

Something was wrong. John vaguely remembered Sherlock calling his name as he was waking up from his nap, so why was Sherlock silent now?

John reared back and kicked open the door. "Oh, Jesus..."


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

He cautiously opened his eyes. The room he was in was bright and white, with the outline of cabinets and lab equipment scattered around it. A feeling of calm rushed through him. _Barts._

"Sherlock?" Molly asked again, tapping his head. She was standing next to him, a thermometer in her hand.

"Hmm? Yeah, I can." Sherlock sat up. "Why am I here?"

"Do you remember what happened?" John inquired apprehensively. He was on the other side of the table, a concerned look on his face.

"Well I was looking in the cabinets for something we could use to filter water and then I turned around and...I think I had a nosebleed. There was a dog too. My dog, Redbeard." Sherlock shook his head. The details were already hazy and even in his mind it sounded ridiculous.

"A hallucination, then." Molly stated, very matter-of-factly. "You were probably dehydrated. And I'm sure it wasn't a great mix with the drugs that were still working its way out of your system."

"I'm clean," Sherlock replied sharply, though he didn't know where his annoyance was coming from. "And I'd best be off now."

He slid off the table he was lying on but Molly stopped him and pushed two cold containers into his arms. They were filled with water.

"Where did you get these?" Sherlock stared at her with amazement.

"We use them down in the morgue for the corpses," Molly shrugged. "But it's perfectly clean water and no one's died today yet, so..."

"Thanks, Molly." Sherlock tucked them inside his coat and made for the door.

ooOoo

Back in 221B, Sherlock pondered on the events of the day. There were a few pieces of the puzzle which still didn't make sense to him: Who was Yellowbeard, and who was that girl? He ruffled his hair. A cup of tea would help clear his head.

He stood up from his chair and walked over to the kitchen, but a crinkle under his foot told him he had trodden on something, most likely a book.

Sherlock bent down to pick it up but stopped short. There was something directly in front of his face on the floor, half tucked away behind the fireplace.

"She was real." Sherlock murmured as he lifted Faith Smith's note off the ground, his mind already racing. _There's an East Wind coming._


End file.
